


Among the Motherland

by orphan_account



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, F/F, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: ASOUE has an ambiguous chronology, but what if it was set during the deadliest conflict in recorded history? Specifically, what if the Baudelaires were orphaned survivors of the Battle of Stalingrad. Dear reader, this unpleasant tale may not suit all.





	Among the Motherland

Violet Baudelaire stirred in her lumpy bed. It was still the wee hours of the morning, meaning that the other children were fast asleep. 0500 hours was the perfect time to peruse the common room’s library. Despite the thunder of artillery and the din of tanks, reading and inventing remained her foremost pursuits. Adorning the simple oaken bookshelf was a portrait of the Vanguard of the Revolution, Josef Stalin. After reverently meditating on his solemn expression for a few seconds, she selected Female Poets of The Revolution by Katarina Poliakov. Her friend, Isadora Quagmire, had recommended it yesterday at lunch. As she sat down on a patch quilt sofa and began reading, she hardly noticed her dilapidated surroundings. Se did not see the cobwebs gathering dust in the corners or hear the scurry of mice underneath the floorboards. She did not even notice the chill of the under insulated barracks or the acrid odor of death permeating the area. The eldest Baudelaire was enraptured in the verses, transported from the fertile fields of Ukraine to the fishermen of Lake Baikal to the equestrian natives of the Mongol steppe. All and more were working in harmony for the advancement of the nation’s glory.

“What a wondrous time to be alive,” the young inventor mused, momentarily forgetting the horrors of her circumstances. “I must be sure to thank Isadora for the recommendation.”

Nearly halfway into the anthology, Violet was roused from fantasy by the calling of a familiar voice.

“Awaken, young comrades! Morning rations await! Ah, Violet, you’re up already.”

The voice belonged to Georgy Andropov, the plump stout headmaster of the institution. Despite the orphanage’s humble conditions, Georgy always managed to smile under his bushy beard.

“Yes,” Violet replied. “These poems written by women comrades of our nation are quite fascinating. I simply couldn’t wait until morning.”

“Of course,” the headmaster replied admiringly. “Literature can be glorious for the liberation of the mind. But how can we liberate Stalingrad on an empty stomach? Come along now or you’ll be late.”

Violet swiftly placed the book back into its place on the shelves. She did not have any bookmarks on her person, due to paper and metal shortages, but mentally marked the page number in her mind. Soon, a line of children in insulated pajamas began walking down the hallway. Among them were her brother, her sister and the Quagmires. She joined them as they walked downstairs to queue at the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Violet greeted smilingly. “Did you all sleep well?”

“Ugh, no,” Isadora grumbled. “I don’t know what annoys me more, the anti-aircraft guns or the baby.”

Klaus was visibly offended. “Her name is Sunny, and it’s only natural that she’d be frightened of the war. Can’t you be more understanding?”

Isadora gave a rude grunt in response. Her brothers quickly moved her aside as they approached the gray stairwell. 

“I’m sorry about that,” apologized Duncan. “I don’t think she’s been quite herself lately.”

“He doesn’t mean just the bombing raids,” Quigley explained. “It’s, you know… that time of the month. And the appropriate rations are scarce.”

Isadora turned and shot them a furious glance. Violet quickly intervened by calmly placing an arm around her waist and guiding her clear of the main group. Once the others had passed, the two girls breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Are you okay?” the Baudelaire asked.

“I’m fine,” Isadora huffed. “My brothers can just be a real pain sometimes, you know?”  
Violet nodded, but without much heart. It pained her to see a dear friend in such distress. Before the war, they had met at a Young Communist’s Summer Camp near Sochi. In those carefree days, the two hardly worried about anything but the length of the days after morning drill. Now however, they were both in dire straits after their houses and much of Stalingrad had been bombed to ruins in brutal street-to-street fighting between the Red Army and the Wehrmacht. They were relatively lucky to have made it to a state orphanage and school just miles outside of the combat zone.

“They’re right though,” the Quagmire continued in a hushed whisper. “I am on my period. It’s terribly painful, and I’ve run out of sanitary pads. I can’t apply for any more until next week!”

“You can borrow some of mine,” Violet reassured. “I’m irregular, so I have some spares. Ask the chef for some barley tea. It might help with the pain.”

Isadora nodded with teary eyes. She suddenly reached her arms around her friend and embraced tightly, weeping gently.

“Oh!” Violet exclaimed in surprise. 

“Was that too much?” Isadora asked fearfully. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I…”

“Not at all,” the eldest Baudelaire replied reassuringly. “We’ll have plenty of time together later, but we should get going. After all, how will you put up with your brothers’ shenanigans on an empty stomach?”

Isadora giggled. “I’ve slapped Quigley with my brassiere when he was being particularly dreadful, but I suppose that won’t do since I only have one left.”

Chortling with laughter, the the two girls made their way to the dining room downstairs. The board benches surrounding the decrepit tin-panel table were already occupied with the posteriors of a few children, while the rest queued at the kitchen countertops for their allotment of borscht and rye bread. The cook, Pyotr, was alternately stirring an enormous pig iron cookpot with an equally oversized ladle and swilling liquid from a translucent faded brown bottle.

“Pyotr, that’s not alcohol, is it?” Klaus asked as he approached the borscht station.

The lanky young man gave a slight chuckle. “This? It’s not vodka, if that’s what you’re asking. I would never drink in front of minors.” He set the bottle down on a table and raised his right hand, as if swearing an oath in front of an invisible jury.

The middle Baudelaire raised an eyebrow at this claim, but knew better than to question it. After all, in such pressing times, Pyotr had provided the orphans in his charge with the heartiest meals possible. After waiting for his friends and sisters, Klaus sat beside them at the far end of the table.

“Peking!” Sunny gurgled as she sat on her sister’s lap.

“What’s that?” Duncan asked.

“She means that she got celery with ersatz oriental savory sauce,” Violet translated. “It sounds delicious.”

“That’s odd,” Klaus remarked as he dipped his loaf of rye into his soup. “I thought fresh vegetables were in limited supply, with the invasion and all.”

“Georgy managed to get a few shipments of canned fruits and vegetables from the nearby battalions,” Quigley explained. “And Pyotr supplemented the supply by storing citrus juice in the cellar, to prevent scurvy.”

“So he was telling the truth earlier?” Klaus asked.

Quigley shrugged. “Who knows? It didn’t smell like vodka to me, but one can always ferment fruit juices.”

Isadora groaned and grasped her stomach. She had hardly touched her food, but the pains were starting again.

“Dora, do you need to lie down?” Duncan asked. “I can help you.”

“I’m fine!” she snapped.

Just as the Quagmire’s brothers were about to respond, Headmaster Andropov blew his whistle thrice. All the children simultaneously stood and lined up in two rows near the service entrance. One whistle meant bedtime, two whistles meant drill. Three whistles was the international distress signal, and more specifically, the air raid warning. If you are a child or were one, it is almost impossible to imagine the horror of everything you own being flattened to rubble and ashes within minutes. However, this is a harsh reality that every child in the orphanage had already faced, including the loss of many loved ones. Thankfully, frequent drills and attacks had prepared them for just such an instance.

“Young comrades! We come to the defense of the motherland once more!” Georgy called out. “Get to the shelter and secure our supplies!”

Quietly, the children trod out onto the field of dying grass surrounding the main building. One line moved towards an outhouse-like structure, while another turned towards a small barn about a hundred meters further away. Both led to series of reinforced tunnels that acted as an air raid shelter for the area. This was originally purpose-built to secure sensitive documents for the elites of Stalingrad, but with the German advance, the aforementioned materials were moved east of the Urals and the space was converted into living and office quarters.

“See you on the other side,” Violet said nervously to Isadora as the Baudelaires and Quagmires separated.

“Of course!” she replied with a wave.

Two by two, the children descended via trapdoors and ladders into the bowels of their protective den, as Pyotr lugged his strategic vodka reserve into the barn and Georgy loaded his Tokarev TT-33 service pistol.


End file.
